Lost Chances
by Space-facade
Summary: In which I veer towards extreme angst, Nick recieves a present from beyond the grave, and my Stephen muse recieves a whumping.


**A/N:- **Angst. Sorry. Thanks to lukadreaming and abbyleaf101 for being fantastic beta readers, and correcting my many mistakes (such as the fact I apparently don't know how many days there are in September...*vbg*). Reviews make a girl very happy...hint hint :P

Lost Chances

It's May 14th when Stephen Hart walks out of his life.

Ever since he first strolled into Nick's office all those years ago, he has been a friend, a solid presence at Nick's shoulder. When Helen disappeared, he became the one constant in a world that had flipped on its head.

But then Helen dropped her little bombshell, and that one constant was blown to pieces. The betrayal of his wife, the betrayal of his best friend, the change in goddamn fucking timeline, it was all too much. Nick's world was spinning, and this time there was no-one to anchor him safely to the ground.

Stephen was the one thing too many on a list of issues to deal with. So Nick pushed him away; let all the anger, all the bitterness, all the hatred simmer inside him until he could almost imagine his insides were black and twisted.

However, as good at denial as he knew he was, even Nick had realised this couldn't go on forever. He thought eventually things would have to come out in the open. They'd fight, they'd make up and Stephen would be **Stephen **again, the same man he'd been throughout eight years of friendship.

Things eventually explode on the M6 of all places. Stephen and Helen. Again. And he couldn't deal with it. He just felt so unbelievably **fucking **stupid. What kind of man must he be if his best friend will cheat with his wife, not once but** twice? **

So things come to a head, and they fight, but they don't make-up. Nick punches Stephen, trying to find a vent for emotional pain in the physical, and then he fires him. He expects Stephen to fight back, to continue protesting his innocence, but Stephen just deflates, his eyes full of a sudden sadness.

He shakes his head, turns away. He walks out of Nick's life.

* * *

On June 26th, they next hear word from Stephen.

It's not much, just a quick postcard, scuffed around the edges. It's addressed to Abby and Connor. There's no mention of Nick.

He watches them; feigning disinterest as they pore over it trying to translate Stephen's sprawling handwriting. Nick knows if he looked he'd be able to read it in a second; Stephen's writing is almost as familiar as his own.

But he can't quite bring himself to go over and read the damn thing. Maybe it's the stubborn Scottish pride Lester snarks about. Maybe it's because he's moved on and he really isn't that interested in Stephen's life any more. Or maybe it's because it really **hurts **that Stephen wrote a postcard addressed to Abby and Connor, who he's known for barely a year, and sent him nothing.

But whatever the reason, he doesn't. And when Abby shoots him a meaningful look, he pretends not to notice. He turns away.

* * *

On July 17th, they finally find out where Stephen has gone.

The correspondence is more detailed this time, a letter a couple of pages in length, but equally scuffed, and equally illegible.

Nick still doesn't join Abby and Connor as they cluster, reading eagerly, and commenting loudly on anything interesting. Connor's loudness is just down to exuberance, and Nick understands this. He hasn't failed to notice how much Abby and Connor miss having Stephen around; how Abby misses the amiable flirting and Connor the almost brotherly banter. Nick's been spending more and more time with them recently, but he knows it isn't sufficient. He wasn't enough for Helen, he wasn't enough for Stephen, and he isn't enough for Connor and Abby either.

The loud nature of Abby's comments is much more pointed. She wants Nick to know what he's missing. Ever since Stephen left, she's been dropping increasingly unsubtle hints along the lines of 'get in touch with your best friend and stop being so bloody stubborn, you idiot.' Nick ignores her.

How can he tell her that he's started so many letters to Stephen he's probably used up a whole tree's worth of paper? How can he tell her that he can never bring himself to write the right words and just ends up saying them aloud to his empty living room? How can he tell her that he normally ends up so miserable and frustrated, he just balls up the paper, punches the wall and drinks himself to sleep? He can't, is the answer. He can't tell her any of it.

He gleans enough information from Abby and Connor to get a fair picture of Stephen's life. He's down in Cornwall, St. Ives, working with a conservation group, and surfing every weekend. It sounds like a life Stephen had been dreaming of. He sounds happy.

Nick can't help but wonder why he chose St. Ives. It's a beautiful place, no doubt about it, and one they used to frequent on holidays. There's this particular beach, far out of the way. It's perfectly secluded, not a holiday trap, but a **proper **Cornish beach, with slate-coloured sand and wild waves. The two of them used to go there wind-surfing, and then sit on the beach for hours, drinking beer, flicking sand at each other and just talking. Nick wonders if Stephen's been back there. If the place holds the same memories as it does for him.

When Abby and Connor finish reading, they head to the laboratory, smiles lighting their faces. Nick knows that both will write back, even if they don't tell him about it. Abby has left the letter, face up on the desk, a deliberate temptation for Nick. Nick gets on with his work, determined not to give in, not to join this game that Abby's playing.

He lasts remarkably well, all the way up to six o'clock. But as he gathers his things together and prepares to leave for the night, he walks past the desk. And there it is. A letter from Stephen. Two pages of scrawl in that familiar handwriting, an opportunity to be let back into the life he pushed away. Nick reaches out a finger, brushes the page, and then, feeling vaguely guilty, stuffs the letter into his jacket pocket.

He won't read it tonight. He doesn't think he can. But soon.

* * *

On September 30th they hear about the accident.

Lester takes the phone call. The Cornish police have found the body of a Mr Stephen Hart washed up on the beach. Parts of his record are closed because he's worked for the Government, and it's their duty to let former employers know.

Abby cries, Connor goes white with shock, Nick just has one question.

'How?'

But like everything in his life at the moment, he doesn't get an answer. The police are still investigating, he's told. The case has not been marked as suspicious; but the police are unsure whether it was an accident or suicide.

Nick wants to protest because he **knows **Stephen, and he would **never **take his own life. But he keeps quiet, because the reality is he **used **to know Stephen. He doesn't any more.

Mr Hart doesn't have any living family, and they need someone to go to Cornwall and identify the body. Everyone's eyes turn to Nick. Still, even after everything that's happened, the responsibility falls on him. He doesn't mind. It's right that it does.

He drives to Cornwall the same day. He's shown into the morgue, and for the first time his brain starts to absorb the fact that Stephen is actually dead. That now he's never coming back.

The pathologist pulls back the sheet, and Nick has to catch his breath. Because it's Stephen. It's his best friend. He's changed in the last six months, lost weight. His skin is darker, tanned from spending so much time out of doors, but his face looks hollowed, gaunt even. Around his temple there's bruising, dark bluish-purple flowers blossoming on his skin. Nick reaches out, wanting to brush them away, wanting to pretend this isn't happening and fix the pain, but the pathologist gently restrains him.

The restraint angers Nick, because in all the time he's known Stephen, the man has hated being touched. Except by Nick. A casual brush of fingers, a quick hug, and arm around the shoulders. Nick was the exception to the rule, the only one inside Stephen's wall. But now it would appear that he's been pushed out to join the rest of the world.

The pathologist is shifting impatiently now, so Nick says the two words he knows are expected.

'It's him.'

He's staying overnight in a local hotel, and that evening he goes down to the beach. He sits there, watching the waves, until the sun rises.

Then, cold and stiff, he gets to his feet. He gives the beach one last look, and once more he turns and walks away.

Leaving the memories behind.

* * *

On October 4th, Nick receives the package.

It's a bulky, A4 envelope, padded, and he has no idea at all who it could be from. Sitting down in the living room, he examines it. It's the only mail he's had on his birthday this year, and the little boy that still lives somewhere inside him wants to make it last.

Slitting open the top, he pulls out a square, A5 package, wrapped in newspaper and tied with string, and an envelope. The envelope is addressed to him. 'Nick' it reads, just the one word, in Stephen's strong, familiar scrawl.

Nick closes his eyes briefly, before pulling out the paper inside. The header reads 'September 30th. God. There's a lump in Nick's throat so big he's finding it hard to breathe. Stephen sat down, the day before he died, and wrote this. Nick doesn't want to read it, wants to stuff it to the back of his wardrobe with the other one so that he doesn't have to deal with the pain. But Stephen, Stephen finally wrote to him, and Nick knows he owes it to the other man to at least read what he has to say.

_Nick,_

_I don't mean to sound sappy, but when I say this is the hardest thing I've ever had to write, I mean it. Let me start with the easy things. _

_Firstly, Happy Birthday. I'm sorry I can't be there to say it to you in person. _

_Secondly, I saw the enclosed in a shop, and thought of you. Perhaps it will bring back memories of a happier time. I apologise for the wrapping._

_And lastly, I'm sorry Nick. For so many things. I'm sorry about the affair, and I'm sorry I didn't tell you about it. I'm sorry I didn't try harder to work things out, and I'm sorry I left. I know you probably hate me at the moment, and you've got every right to. I was a bastard. I thought leaving for Cornwall might fix things, but it hasn't really because even after everything that's happened, I miss having you around. _

_I'm writing to say that I'm coming home. Lester has agreed to have me back on the project. I never took the chance to apologise properly while I still could, because I'm a coward, so I'm coming back, and I'm going to say all this to your face. I hope you'll give me the chance to make it up to you._

_Happy Birthday Nick. _

_I'll see you soon._

_Stephen._

By the time Nick finishes reading, tears are flooding thick and fast down his face, and he can barely breathe.

Unable to deal with the letter, he pulls the package towards him instead. Untying the string, he peels back the newspaper, pulling out a small canvas.

His breath catches again. It's an oil painting. A representation of the beach at sunset. The sea and the sand are no longer slate grey, they are illuminated by the fiery reds of the dying sunset. It's beautiful.

Nick runs his finger over the ridges of the paint, breathing in the smell of oils. Stephen had seen this and thought of him. All those memories he had of them spending holidays there. Stephen remembered them too. And he hadn't forgotten his birthday. Seven months of silence, and Stephen had still managed to send him a birthday present from beyond the grave. Nick found himself almost smiling.

He re-reads the last paragraph. The apologies, somehow unnecessary now, and the declaration he was coming home. He had never made it. Stephen had left, he was coming back, coming to see Nick, to make up for chances missed and apologise in person. But something had happened, they might never know what, and he had ended up dead.

Stephen wasn't the only one who had missed opportunities, let chances pass him by. Nick was more than guilty of that as well. All Stephen had wanted was the chance to make up, to regain a little of the friendship and enduring trust. He'd wanted the chance to have Nick back on his side of the wall.

A sob rises up in Nick's throat.

All those chances. Lost forever.


End file.
